


still ahead

by myhappyface



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: F/F, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhappyface/pseuds/myhappyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forty-two years old, she thinks, and still putting drunks to bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	still ahead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tournamentofhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tournamentofhearts/gifts).



> Rule 63 Lewis/Kellerman, for reasons. Set after "Sniper (2)."

Kellerman's still sitting at the bar when Lewis finishes wiping it down. She's been staring into her drink for the past ten minutes. The condensation on the glass has destroyed the napkin; there's going to be a ring on the bar until Lewis makes Bayliss polish it. 

"Cutting you off, partner," she tells Kellerman, but Kellerman's doing that quiet-morose thing, like all the fight's been kicked out of her, and she just grunts, pushes glass and soggy napkin to the edge of the bar. 

Lewis flicks the condensation at her. Kellerman scowls.

 

It's nice and peaceful while Lewis locks up and counts out the till, leaves enough for opening tomorrow and puts the rest in the bank bag to drop off before work. Sadly, there's no way to fob this part off onto Bayliss.

Kellerman's rubbing the flat of her palm over the waxy residue where the glass was when she says, "All I wanted the past three days was for it to slow down enough for me to sleep more than two hours back to back, and now that it has I'm too keyed up to keep my eyes shut."

"Wantin' is better than gettin'," Lewis says, not paying much attention. Like every other drunk person, Lewis in her dignity excepted, Kellerman is sort of funny and pretty melodramatic. Lewis knows there's another conversation she wants to have, but Lewis doesn't want to have it. Lewis doesn't want to talk about Kellerman's ex-girlfriend now or ever.

"But--"

"Nope," Lewis says, cutting the lights and hustling Kellerman out so she can lock the door behind them. "It's time for all good little homicide detectives to be in bed." She pauses. "Or in boat. Hah."

She tucks Kellerman into the passenger seat and starts the car, takes them both over to the marina where Kellerman's boat is floating, clean and serene in the lamp light. 

 

"I think you're wrong, though," Kellerman says. They're walking up the gangplank to the deck and she's fumbling the keys Lewis tossed her in a fit of crankiness. _Forty-two years old_ , she thinks, _and still putting drunks to bed_. "Think about the last time you really wanted something, like wrote to Santa about it _bad_ , and you actually _got it_ , that first minute when you tear off the paper and see -- whatever old folks like you wished for when they were kids. --That first minute is pretty fucking good."

Lewis is pretty sure she's too old to want things like that.

 

She can hear Kellerman shuffling around in the bedroom, the groan of bed springs when she settles down. Lewis stakes out the couch and puts the tv on low, falls asleep listening to some shit about aliens. 

She wakes up two hours later, like clockwork, reaching for her gun on the side table. It's been a long week. 

She turns off the tv and listens for signs of life from the next room, but all she can hear is the slap of water against the boat's sides. 

 

The next morning, Kellerman is hungover but insists on driving, so by the time they get to the station they're both pissed. Gee takes one look at them and sends them back out to finish getting witness statements from the sniper's neighbors. Bayliss is smirking, so Lewis drops the bank bag in his lap on their way out. Frank raises an eyebrow but keeps his mouth shut. 

Interviews take up the first six hours of their shift. They eat lunch in the car and make a mess with the crab shells, then browbeat a few more nice suburbanites before heading back in for the paperwork. 

They keep their heads down so Gee doesn't give them more grunt work, but the second time Lewis finds herself staring at the blue fire helmet on Kellerman's desk she throws in the towel and goes to the break room. There's coffee, which she's not letting herself drink this late, and a sad looking Danish in a bag on top of the microwave with Bayliss' name written on the plastic. 

Bayliss isn't a rookie anymore, but yanking his chain is one of life's consistent pleasures.

End of shift, Kellerman drives back to the boat. Lewis hasn't been to her apartment more than twenty minutes at a time in the past week, long enough to shower and change; she's starting to forget what the place looks like. 

They drink some, and Lewis falls asleep on the couch again. She doesn't dream about anything she remembers in the morning.

 

Lewis wakes up half on, half off the couch. Kellerman's leaning against the kitchen bar, drinking a glass of water. It's still dark. 

"Just looking at you hurts," Kellerman says, but she's smiling.

Lewis can smell the cigarette smoke on her from across the room, and it gets stronger when Kellerman sits down beside her.

Maybe not too old, after all.


End file.
